November 2012
Author's Note: I'm normally too shy to post something this "artsy" but I figured I'd give it a try. Set in the Lake George simulation. Please let me know what you think:)
It's strange how hard it can be to return to reality, she thinks later. She twirls the stem with elegant fingers, watches the bubbles of her champagne rising like a million butterflies. The glass is cool to her red lips when she takes a sip and savors the unique sweetness that sears down her throat. She lowers her drink and turns her gaze back to the lake, a strand of auburn hair fluttering in the soft wind.
But who is this woman, watching the sunset from the deck of a sailboat named Gretchen? This woman wearing his favorite crooked smile as she recognizes the man approaching?
And who is this man who grins so broadly to see her waiting for him, barefoot and casually dressed, on a lake he's never seen? Why does he seem almost magnetically drawn to the lithe figure above as he pulls off his shoes and clambers aboard?
It is impossible, the woman thinks, that she has any other purpose in life than to wear billowy white outfits and smile at this man who pours her more champagne.
The notion that she has any care in the world at all is absurd, she marvels as they settle down on the narrow couch to watch the flaming sky.
The man once swore to himself that he would make her life and job as easy as possible- that he would quell those urges for her that engulfed him the way the fiery sunset did the sky now, but that distant promise seems to float away like wishes from a dandelion when she sighs and presses against him.
Real life is eons away when he leans in and his face hovers a hair's breadth above hers, questions in his deep brown gaze.
The only time is here and now when there is no hesitation in her piercing blue gaze, and her lips rise up to meet his and brush across his.
Their eyes lock. The world has not ended; the smooth wood beneath their feet still stands strong. They smile.
And then, the way the lake can abruptly roil up in a tempest of thunder and cloud, a storm is upon them; their own oblivion of reverent hands and sweet mouths and suddenly bare skin. A puddle of silk and fabric grows around them as he nuzzles her elegant, rose-scented neck, and she in turn savors the feel of her fingers raking through his soft hair, brushes her thumb across the intricate pattern above his eye.
He pauses, rests in forehead on hers. Takes her hand in his. She nods coyly. He lifts her slender frame into his arms easily and carries her to the tiny bedroom below, and both laugh as he does so- they laugh at how ridiculously wrong this is and neither cares, at the way her foot catches on the doorframe and he kisses it better when they reach the bed- but then his kisses glide up her leg and all coherent thought is driven from her mind and laughter dies on her lips.
The inherent truth of the matter is that it doesn't matter who they are when they return to real life, that he will not be able to take her in his arms and kiss her whenever he pleases- the monstrously heavy rank she wears on her neck is as good as a force field between them. It's completely inconsequential that she must quash the impulse to grip his hand every day, though it remains tantalizingly close when he types away at their shared console.
And now, as she lays languidly drapes across him, her skin glowing silver in the moonlight, the man knows that if his entire life was be revealed to be a lie, this moment would be a single truth.
The woman hears his heart beating synchronized with hers, feels him matching her breath for breath. She knows that in the dark times ahead, when despair threatens to drown her in icy depths, this moment of complete and utter togetherness will shine out like a pearl.
She is all caught up in him, her legs still entangled with his. She frees herself to reach up and kiss him, then again- and again. He smiles and flips her over again so that they are face to face, heartbeat to heartbeat. There are still a few more hours before they must return to reality.